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Of anything in life that I have done
Cannot say that my late mum and dad would have been proud to call me son
Only know that big brother's disciples my sort does not impress
In their eyes I am a failure due to my lack of material success
Of life's material opportunities I did not avail
And in the eyes of many I am one who did fail
But in my early seventies I will not be shedding tears
For my life's missed material opportunities and my materially wasted years
I discovered in my late twenties in my physical prime
That I was one born into life to write rhyme
And rhyme was once a popular form of writing but not anymore
In the twenty first century rhymers are not to the literary fore
And since for it I never receive any money in pay
I have been advised by some to give rhyming away
But for their unsolicited advice to them I do say
I will retire from rhyming on my life's final day
It is a nice day near the Town of Millstreet
In the old rushy fields where the waterways meet
The dark gray faced rooks cawing on the tall beech trees
On a warm and sunny afternoon of around twenty three degrees
The sun on their wings chirping as they fly
The dark barn swallows chase flying insects in the sky
And in the freshening breeze of a near perfect day
The sweet scent of freshly mowed grass for silage or hay
In latter July with August quite near
Such beautiful weather even for the time of year
A beautiful memory to visualize and retain
In times of nostalgia to visit again
Of a beautiful place where the rivers do meet
In the old rushy fields by the Town of Millstreet.
Though he had to flee his war torn homeland far away
He thinks of his birthplace in South Sudan every day
The village he fled from and where his wife and three young children under gunfire died
A victim whose life dreams by war was destroyed
In his mid thirties the tall dark handsome man
May never again return to South Sudan
Though he feels out of place in this southern land
And this in itself not hard to understand
A stranger to many in this land of the far south
He knows what the heartbreak of war is all about
Far from his homeland he begins a new life
Without his children and without his wife
It was not by choice he became a refugee
He does know how heartbreaking that war can be
His beloved home village he was forced to flee
And of war he has many a bad memory
Though he is one who has been through earthly hell
On his bad life experiences he does not dwell
Tall and athletic and quite an amiable man
A refugee of war in Southern Sudan.
You may not be one who has done materially well
But of life you do have your own stories to tell
Though in your stories of life nothing of fortune and fame
You have never dishonoured your family name
You work hard for you never an easy pay
And you never harm anyone in any way
To your higher self you remain ever true
And this to your credit is certainly due
Of others you never have unkind things to say
And to help some you often go out of your way
You work hard for your every take home pay
And you perform at least one good deed every day
In your life you practice the theory of giving to receive
On what goes around comes around you do believe
Everyday for humanity you sow the good seed
The Human World of your sort of far more is in need
You may not be one of the wealthy and famous on your side of the town
But in words or deeds you never drag anyone down
On the ladder of material success you may not have climbed far
But your life values tell us of the good person you are.
In my memory they sing in the woods to me near
The beautiful songs of the song thrushes so pleasant to hear
Brown spotted gray breast, brown on wings, back, head and tail
Once seen and once heard to recognize them again you won't fail
Song thrushes are shy birds with ways of their own
And blackbirds for some reason than them better known
But song thrushes they do have a beautiful song
And among Nature's finest minstrels they surely belong
From my memories of Spring in leafy groves far away
The songs of the song thrushes I remember today
A beautiful sound of the northern Spring
The great gift of memory is a wonderful thing
A memory of the past that today I retain
And in fancy I hear a song thrush sing again.
I may never meet old Duhallow again
Or in Spring hear the breeding frogs croaking in the waterlogged drain
Or see the Boggeraghs half cloaked in the gray fogs of rain
Of such things memories are all I have left to retain
But such memories to me remain a source of joy
Of where I grew to love Nature when I was a boy
In fancy I can hear a male pink breasted chaffinch sing
On a leafy birch tree in the prime of the Spring
When in the old fields Nature has her flowers on display
And the hawthorns are cloaked on their white blooms of the May
And the swallows are chirping in the sky blue and gray
Good memories of such beauty a lifetime does stay
Good old memories die hard as the wise one does say
And I often think of Duhallow from here far away.
